Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (67 page)

 
          
Coursey
had to laugh into his face mask.

 
          
What
the controller did not convey to the F-16 pilots was that the MiGs might be
planning, computing their attack on them using the long-range radar on the
II-76 just as they themselves would use the E-5’s radar to direct an attack on
the MiGs. The 767 AWACS controller should be setting up options for the F-i6s
in case the MiGs started to mix it up. Intelligence reported that the Soviets
now used an AA-11 infrared short-range missile, code-name “Archer,” and a copy
of the AIM-120 launch-and-leave medium-range missile called the AA-15
“Abolish,” but that neither was as good as the American counterpart. Well, if
things went to shit they were going to find out first-hand about the Russian
missile’s capabilities.

 
          
“Eighty
miles,” the controller said. “Spacing increasing between fighters and transport
aircraft. Altitude readouts on all three remain flight level one-eight-zero.”
The MiGs were getting some maneuvering room, Coursey thought, but it was
unlikely they’d leave the transport unprotected.

 
          
“Sixty
miles. Flight level one-eight-zero. Moving to one- thirty position. Distance
between fighters and transport now one mile.”

 
          
“Barrier,
Dragon Five-Seven is zero-three minutes from join-up,” Coursey heard a new
voice report. That was Major Tom Duncan, the squadron operations officer and
leader of the second flight. The brass must have called back the second flight
of F-i6s when the MiGs showed up. At least
someone
on the AWACS is thinking, Coursey thought.

 
          
“Forty
miles,” the controller said. “Spacing between fighters and transport now one
mile. Altitude still one-eight-zero.”

 
          
They
should just cruise on by, Coursey told himself. As long as Douglas and Myers
kept their guns away from them, they shouldn’t feel threatened. Nothing’s going
on here, Coursey told himself, trying to convince himself this was a routine
training flight, but he began heading toward the Soviet formation as if running
his own intercept on the transport. Radar-warning indications illuminated his
threat receiver—he had to assume that the Russians knew he was up here . . .

 
          
“Twenty
miles, Dragon, moving to
two o’clock
position.”

 
          
“Tally
ho,”
Douglas
called out. It was just a speck on the
horizon, but the huge Ilyushin transport moved into view. From twenty miles
away the huge saucer radome, viewed from above, could be clearly seen; it
resembled an American C-141 Starlifter with a flying saucer hovering over it.
“Definitely an AWACS configuration,”
Douglas
reported.

 
          
“Five-Five
has a tally,” Myers finally said—a few more seconds and
Douglas
would have had to take the lead. “Coming
right to intercept.”

 
          
“Fighters
moving out to two miles of the transport,” the controller reported.

 
          
Two
miles? They were still fairly close to the transport, but two miles’ separation
was a long way for escort aircraft. They were loosening up their escort duties
considerably . . .

 
          
“Fighters
moving to three miles . . . now four miles, Dragon,” the controller said.
“Report visual contact on the fighters.”

 
          
“Five-Six
has a tally.”

 
          
“Five-Five.”
He didn’t sound very positive—Coursey guessed that he hadn’t yet picked up the
fighters.

 
          
“The
fighters are breaking off to join up on you individually,” Coursey called out
on the command channel. “Ignore them. Keep an eye on them, but all we want is a
visual on the transport. Be careful—they might try to crowd you or hit you with
a radar lock-on. Nice and easy.”

 
          
Coursey
was prophetic. “Dragon, MiGs are pairing up with you, one turning left, one
turning right, both climbing. Five- Five, your bogey is at
eleven o’clock
, fifteen miles. Five-Six, your bogey is at
two o’clock
, fifteen miles.”

 
          
“Lead,
c’mon down here.” That was Myers.

 
          
“I
said ignore the fighters,” Coursey said. “Keep your damned cool.” But Coursey
found it was getting harder and harder to believe himself—the Russians were up
to something. What?

 
          
“Ten
miles to the transport,” the controller reported. “Five- Five, your bogey’s at
nine o’clock
, eight miles. Five-Six,
three o’clock
, seven miles . . . Dragon flight, both MiGs
moving rapidly on your outboard beams, closing rapidly to three miles . . . two
miles . .

           
Myers could only stare out his
canopy—the twin-tailed MiG- 29, resembling a larger single-seat version of the
Navy F-14 Tomcat, was in a shallow right bank and screaming right at him. He
was not stopping his turn rate ... Myers called on the radio—
“He’s gonna hit
...”

 
          
“Hold
your position . . .”

 
          
But
Myers couldn’t stand it any longer. With the MiG still a mile away, he selected
max afterburner and yanked back on his control stick.
Douglas
was completely taken by surprise but
somehow managed to stay within a half-mile of his leader.

 
          
Myers
shot skyward, allowing his F-16 to gain at least five thousand feet before even
thinking about recovering. Then, noticing his airspeed bleeding off, he rolled
inverted to the left and pulled to arrest his ascent—but he had ignored his
wingman trying to stay on his right wing.
Douglas
instinctively rolled left with Myers and
found himself at the top of the roll directly over Myers and fast running out
of airspeed. “Five-Five, roll right,”
Douglas
called out as he remained inverted and pushed his nose below the horizon to
gain airspeed.

 
          
Douglas
dropped like a stone right at Myers’ F-16.
Myers had taken a few seconds to roll upright before he yanked his fighter
right just in time to avoid
Douglas
.
The second F-16 dropped another two thousand feet to regain its airspeed before
rolling upright and accelerating to join up on Myers.

 
          
“Myers,”
Douglas
called, “watch what the hell you’re doing—”

 
          
“That
crazy Russian almost rammed me—”

 
          
“No
one’s going to ram you,” Coursey told him, “they’re just
screwing
with you. You guys are looking like bozos. Now get back
there and check out that transport.
Now.
And goddamn it, take it
easy.
”

 
          
Myers
scanned the sky—none of the aircraft was in sight. “Barrier, where are they?”

 
          
“Dragon,
transport is at
one o’clock
,
ten miles and northbound, two thousand feet above you. Fighters have rejoined
left and right with the transport.”

 
          
Murphy
finally caught sight of them. “Roger. Tally ho. We’re climbing to pursue.”

           
“Stay behind them,” Coursey said. “I
want an I.D. on the transport, that’s all. Don’t mix it up with the MiGs.”

 
          
Fine
with Myers. He waited until
Douglas
caught up with him, then pushed his throttles back to min afterburner to
pursue. He stared at the transport—it looked immense even from this distance.
“Something strange with that transport, Barrier—”

 
          
Just
then the two MiGs peeled off left and right from the transport and made a hard
descending turn straight at the two F-i6s.

 
          
“They’re diving right at us,” Myers called
out.

           
“Hold your position, Myers,” Douglas
told his leader. “Hang in there—”

 
          
Suddenly,
when the diving fighters were less than three miles away, Myers’ jaw sagged.
Out of the left fuselage win- groot area he saw bright winking flashes of light
and realized that. . . God, one of the MiGs had actually opened fire on him
with its cannon.

 
          
“They’re
shooting
at us.”

 
          
Douglas
saw the MiG’s descending on them but it was
soon clear that they were going to pass well in front of the F-i6s. He yelled
to Myers, “Hold your—” Too late. Myers saw the cannon firing and rolled hard
left, quickly disappearing from view. One of the MiGs turned to pursue while
the other MiG continued its dive, passing almost a mile in front of
Douglas
. But this time
Douglas
did not turn to stay on Myers’ wing.
Instead he accelerated and headed straight for the transport.

 
          
“Five-Six,
where are you?” he heard Myers yelling. “I’ve got a MiG on my tail—”

 
          
“Join
up on me,”
Douglas
told him. “I’m on the transport.”

 
          
“Dammit,
get this MiG off me—”

 
          
“He’s
not on you, Five-Five,”
Douglas
said. “He’s just buzzing you. Ignore him. Join on me and let’s I.D. this
transport and go home.”

 
          
The
radar-threat receiver screeched a warning. “He’s got missile lock.” Myers
again. “He’s got
missile
lock . . .”
The second MiG, which had crossed below
Douglas
, had apparently zoomed back up and behind
Douglas
and activated its missile-tracking radar.
Douglas
ignored it. “I’m almost at the transport,
Barrier, there’s something going on—”

 
          
“You’ve
got one on your tail!” Myers shouted, forgetting about the MiG behind him.
“I’ll be there in a second—”

 
          
“I’ve
got the lead, Five-Five,”
Douglas
said. “Join on my left wing.
Ignore
the MiGs.”
Douglas
stared at the transport. “Barrier, this is
Five-Six. I can’t yet make it out clearly but it looks like this transport’s
got three other planes under him. Repeat, it looks like three more planes
flying tight formation underneath him. Over.”

 
          
“Five-Six,
look out, you’ve got one right at your six . . .”

 
          
“I
said ignore him, Myers,”
Douglas
said. “If he was going to shoot he would have done it before now.”

 
          
Coursey
felt his throat tighten. He keyed his microphone. “All Dragon units, hold your
fire.” But it was too late. On board Dragon Five-Five all Lieutenant Myers
heard from Dragon Five-Six was the word “shoot.”

 
          
The
F-i6’s throttle and control-stick grips were designed for rapid touch-and-feel
attack-mode activation, eliminating the need for the pilot to take his eyes off
the target to bring his weapons to bear. Myers had that procedure down cold.
With the index finger of his right hand he hit the MSL step-button to select an
AIM-120 radar-guided missile. Selection of the missile automatically activated
the attack data-link between the 767 AWACS and the F-16. Target-designation
diamonds appeared on the heads-up display and surrounded both
Douglas
’ F-16 and the pursuing MiG-29. Myers hit
another button on the top of the control stick with his right index finger,
causing a blinking square to surround the target-designation diamond around the
MiG—the attack computer was now locked onto the MiG and was transferring attack
data to the selected missile. A moment later a steady beeping sound was heard
in Myers’ helmet, indicating that the AIM-120 Scorpion missile had received its
initial flight-course information and was ready for launch.